


And I Am Ashamed

by NovelistAngel23



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Happy Birthday Jeanbo, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 02:56:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6498067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovelistAngel23/pseuds/NovelistAngel23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Momma should hate him now--he'd almost been counting on it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I Am Ashamed

His hands shake as he reads the letter. They always do. Momma should hate him now—he’d almost been counting on it. But her letters come, once a month, every year.

This month is special, though. And as he reads the letter, he wishes he could hear her voice. Wishes he could visit her. Wishes he could lay soft and warm in bed as she brushes his bangs from his face and whispers the words from the paper to him.

He looks up from the paper at the sound of the bunk below his creaking. He’s not at home. The barracks are cold. Jean grabs at his blanket and pulls it closer around his shoulders as the bed creaks once more.

There’s a hand on the rungs, just one and then two. Freckles dot the knuckles. Soon the hands are replaced by a face. The only light in the barracks is that of the moon, but Marco’s eyes shine nonetheless.

“Hey,” he whispers, and without asking permission, he crawls up the rest of the way onto Jean’s bed.

There are a few people awake—there always is. Some who cannot rest because of the nightmares, some who are just too sore, some who are just too tired.

Marco is none of those things, at least not tonight. His eyes shine with the kind of joy that Jean often envies in silence. Marco sits on his knees next to Jean—words need not be exchanged, as they’ve done this so often now that Jean wonders why they don’t just share a bed.

Soon, with a bit of shifting, Marco pulls out a small sack from his back pocket. He holds it out to Jean with his lips spread in a shy smile. “It’s for you,” he says. Jean squints but takes it without question. Marco isn’t the kind to play tricks.

Especially not on a day like today.

The sack is closed with a ratty ribbon—likely the trash of one of the girls. It’s red, and tied in a bow. Jean thinks that Marco is probably the only one in training who knows how to tie bows and does it willingly. He almost doesn’t want to pull it loose. But after glancing up at Marco, at his eagerly waiting expression and widening smile, he does so with a sigh.

One tug in the right place, and it falls apart. The sack is a thin piece of fabric that slips open. In the palm of Jean’s hand is an acorn. He squints at it, squints at Marco. “A nut?” he asks softly.

Marco shakes his head and reaches for Jean’s hand. He pinches the acorn between two fingers and lifts it up. It’s connected to a string, Jean now sees, long enough to wrap around his neck. That’s what Marco does, leaning in close enough for Jean’s nose to almost bump into his.

Marco’s face is reddish as he pulls back, although it’s hard to tell in the dim light of the moon. He puts his hands in his lap, shifts to cross his legs beneath him. “It’s a good luck charm. My mom taught me how to make them. You crack open the acorn and take out the orange stuff inside? And then you fill it up with flowers and things that you like. Then you just have to stick the cap back on and tie it to a string and tada!”

Jean lifts it in his palm. To his surprise, he hears a soft jingle that he hadn’t noticed before. Marco smiles. “It’s a bell. I found a bent one, and it fit inside, so…”

Jean’s mouth feels dry. He feels as if he hasn’t spoken in a long time. It’s true. He hasn’t spoken since he got the letter from his mother. He feels much quieter than he usually is. As if something has changed, as if being fifteen is different than being fourteen.

“Happy birthday,” Marco says, just as Jean forces out a croaky, “Thank you.”

Marco laughs softly, tiny. “Happy birthday,” he says again.

The acorn feels odd against his chest. Jean picks it up and lets it drop again and again, listening to the bell, feeling it hit his chest. “It’s late,” he murmurs. “We should get to bed.”

Marco looks almost disappointed. “Yes… you’re right.” He hesitates as he moves to go though. Jean doesn’t meet his eyes.

“You know,” Marco finally whispers. “You know you’re my best friend, Jean.”

Jean knows what he’s trying to say, trying to ask. “It’s nothing, Marco,” he whispers in reply. He knows Marco won’t push it.

He doesn’t know if that’s what he wants.

As Marco looks away and places one foot on the second rung to climb down, Jean opens his letter again and says. “It’s from Mom.” It takes everything in him not to say Momma. He doesn’t deserve it.

Marco pauses and says, “Do you want to talk about it?”

He shakes his head. He doesn’t want to talk about it.

Doesn’t want to remember it. Remember the look on her face when he announced, “I’m going to the military.” She cried. She begged him not to.

But he was thirteen then, and he ruled the world. He knew everything, knew how to protect her. Knew that he would go to the Military Police and buy her a nice house. One with a garden. One where they’d never have to worry about the walls tumbling down around them.

She’d cried.

“Dear Jeanbo,” he whispers softly. Marco moves towards the sound of his voice. “It’s been two years now. I still miss you every day. I know how hard it must have been for you to go—probably harder than it was to let you. But even so, I’m proud of you.”

Marco lays down, his head on Jean’s pillow as he listens to Jean read. Jean’s hands shake. His voice stops as he reads silently, the updates about her life. The new jobs she’s taken on. The neighbors and their boy that’s thirteen now and wants to join the military just like Jean.

“I remember,” he murmurs. His voice is quiet and wavering. Marco’s eyes don’t waver. “The song I used to sing you when you couldn’t sleep. Oh Jeanbo. I wish I could sing it to you now. But you probably don’t need my voice to help you sleep now. You’ve grown into such a brave young man. I love you. I always will.”

She’d written the lyrics to the song at the bottom. But Jean cannot read it now, because his head is ducked down and he’s trying not to cry.

It’s then that Marco’s hand touches his elbow. Jean feels frozen. Even the tears refuse to fall.

Jean lays down as Marco gently pushes him. He lets the letter go when Marco takes it gingerly from his hands.

When Marco begins to sing, the tune is all wrong. Jean knows that he has the better voice, but he won’t stop Marco’s singing. It soothes him, reaches the bruised ribcage beneath his skin. Instead, he fingers the acorn around his neck. Hears the bell chime along with Marco’s voice.

Soon, Jean is falling fast asleep. Marco’s voice softens and slows in the darkness. Jean almost believes he can see it in the air above him. He closes his eyes rather than see it fade.

“Happy birthday, Jean,” Marco whispers.

Jean smiles a little bit. Tomorrow, he knows, he’ll be his normal cocky self. And when he wakes up Marco will be in his own bunk. But for now, he feels soft in his chest and warm in his heart. He holds the lucky charm close to his chest. He hears Momma’s voice, and she says happy birthday too.

She says I love you.

**Author's Note:**

> I've always headcanoned that Jean loves his mother but thinks she hates him because she didn't want him to join the military. SO HERE YOU GO. Happy birthday, Jeanbo, your mother loves you and so do I (and so does Marco).
> 
> (I've also always headcanoned that Marco knows how to make a bunch of homemade knickknacks, hence the acorn charm.)
> 
> Oh and the title is a lyric from Plains by Wye Oak. Which I listened to almost exclusively while writing.
> 
> If you like my writing, be sure to leave a kudos and comment and check out my writing sideblog, novelistangel.tumblr.com =DD


End file.
